


Unfolding

by halbeshaus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secret Snarry Swap 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-05 17:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16815598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halbeshaus/pseuds/halbeshaus
Summary: "Dying men are desperate, Mr Potter." Snape's fingers drummed against his glass as he spoke. "I clearly wasn't in my right mind – and neither were you as it seems. I thought I had failed your mother. It wasn't your eyes I wanted to see, but hers."





	Unfolding

**Author's Note:**

> A massive thank you to my beta thegreatsnapescape, who kept me sane throughout this process. Your thoughts and ideas were invaluable.
> 
> Prompt 16 from smirkingcat: Harry was certain, that if it wasn't for his mother's green eyes, Severus would have never given him any chance in the first place. Even years after they announced their relationship, Harry still feels like he is living in the shadow of his mother. But then Severus managed to find a way to lay all his worries and doubts to rest (you can totally switch and tell it from Severus' pov).

**_1\. December 2001_ **

The Leaky Cauldron was nearly empty. Although, that shouldn't have been a surprise to Harry as he sat, five gin and tonics deep, at a table in the back. He'd rather be anywhere else: the Burrow, Grimmauld Place, or even another stilted holiday spent hiding from the Dursleys. But the Leaky Cauldron had been the first place he'd thought of. He'd passed through a week ago when buying Christmas presents, surprised to find it so peaceful in spite of how packed Diagon Alley had been. So it was here, in the heat of an argument, he had come.

He'd arrived with his jacket still loose on his shoulders, not having been outside long enough for the cold to tinge his cheeks. The only other people inside had been the barmaid and a man asleep at a table. At some point, between Harry ordering his fourth drink and sitting back down at his table, someone else had appeared at the bar.

Snape had claimed a stool at the farthest corner of the bar. Harry only hoped Snape was too busy eyeing the pour of his pint to notice him. It wasn't that Harry didn't want to speak to him, more that every conversation they did have left him confused. He had come to learn that ignoring Snape was the best way of dealing with him – which meant, in many ways, it was the best post–war relationship Harry had with anyone: three years spent in almost–silence, terse words exchanged at the ministry, and a shared hatred of the anniversary celebrations. Everyone else held Harry up on a pedestal, but for all his failings this Snape had never done. Snape didn't care for the Boy Who Lived at Hogwarts, nor did he care now for the Man Who Killed. That slighting disdain was one of the few things which survived unscathed by war.

A new drink appeared on his table, breaking him from his thoughts.

"Ministry functions not enough for you, Mr Potter? Must you also satisfy your thirst for fame by flaunting yourself here?" Snape towered above him, an arm raised to motion to the nonexistent crowd behind him. That was one other thing which time had left untouched: Snape had retained the ability to appear whenever he was least wanted.

"Sod off, Snape. I'm not in the mood."

"No?" His mouth curled. "Then I am thankful the world does not revolve around you." Snape set his own glass down and slid onto the seat opposite Harry's. "That hasn't been poisoned. I asked the barmaid what you had been drinking and ordered you a double."

"Trying to get me drunk?" Harry asked, but he reached out and took it all the same. A trickle dribbled down his chin as he drank.

"Evidently I've no need," Snape replied. "But surely our golden boy has better places to be, what" – he glanced at the clock and saw it was now passed midnight – "two days after Christmas? I was sure the Weasleys were still insisting you inflict yourself upon them."

Harry groaned. He _had_ gone to the Burrow for Christmas. He'd sat beside Ginny, smiled and laughed in all the right places, pretended the gulf between them wasn't as large as it really was. But that hadn't been enough to stay the questions – familial love had stretched too thin. Why hadn't they moved in together? When would Harry ask Ginny to marry him? When would Harry finally be a real part of the family?

"God, I wish I were dead."

Snape snorted. "Pity then that neither one of us is."

"Came bloody close to it if you ask me. I seem to remember you bleeding out in my arms."

"A fact you did not try to remedy. If it weren't for Miss Granger's quick thinking, I no doubt would have died."

Harry flushed. "You were the one who – you wanted me to look at you. You wanted to see my eyes."

"Dying men are desperate, Mr Potter." Snape's fingers drummed against his glass as he spoke. "I clearly wasn't in my right mind – and neither were you as it seems. I thought I had failed your mother. It wasn't your eyes I wanted to see, but hers."

Silence fell on them. Snape used the moment to take a long gulp of his beer. He set it back down on the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Out with it then. Why are you looking so forlorn?"

Harry looked around the pub. The barmaid was wiping down the bar with a cloth, and the only other patron was still asleep at his table.

"I had a fight with Mrs Weasley. I thought it best if I got out of their way for the rest of the holiday," Harry said, keeping his voice low.

"Oh? Do tell then, what was this fight about?"

"She kept asking me when Ginny and I were going to get married. She has been all year really. I guess I got tired of it, so I told her why I couldn't marry Ginny. Except, she seemed to take it as exactly the reason why I should."

Snape leant forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Miss Weasley is not without merit. You certainly seemed interested when you were at school."

"It's not that I'm not interested. I am. Just, not in the way people think. We get on well enough – well maybe not right now, because everyone did seem quite upset. But it wouldn't be right if I did marry her. Ginny deserves someone who loves her. Someone who can love her."

Snape smiled, his yellow teeth ugly in the dim light. "We are more alike than I thought. That's two things we have in common now."

"Hang on, I thought you –" but Harry was cut off by the bell for last orders.

Snape downed his drink and stood up. "Love comes in many forms, Mr Potter. You of all people should know that." He looked down at Harry's forgotten gin and tonic. "Are you going to finish that?"

It would be a waste for it go undrunk. Snape had bought it for him, after all. He finished it before standing up to pull on his jacket.

"Where are you off to then?" he asked.

"I have a home. Not Spinner's End. Though the Ministry has finally ceded that it does belong to me."

Of course Snape had moved on after the war. Harry was still in Grimmauld Place. He'd meant to sell it at first, but after the war he'd needed somewhere to hide away from the journalists and grateful crowds. Grimmauld Place, with its paranoid previous owners, came as a ready-made haven from the chaos of it all. But he didn't want to go where he knew he'd be found, nor could he return to the Burrow tonight.

"Do you think Professor McGonagall would–"

"Don't even think about it. That woman has a sixth sense when it comes to meddling in other people's relationships." They headed over to the Floo. "There is another option of course." Snape raised a brow, not quite looking at Harry as he took a handful of Floo powder from the pot on the mantelpiece. "You could come home with me. Of course there would be no expectations. Not unless..." He trailed off.

Harry had never thought about Snape that way. Lockhart he'd been ashamed to admit he had, even Lupin at one point formed some part of how he figured out he was gay. But never Snape. Although, looking back to his sixth year, the intrigue of The Half–Blood Prince was always there, in the background of everything he did. Some common ground had been found: two lost boys scrabbling for a place in the world. Snape hadn't been the Prince for two decades now, and his face could in no way be described as attractive.

Then again Snape was there, offering himself, ready to be rejected.

"Why?"

Snape hadn't been expecting that. His eyes met Harry's, and for a moment it was like nothing else existed in the world. Snape's free hand came up, grazed over cheekbone, shifted Harry's fringe from his face. Harry could smell the alcohol on his breath.

"I have always liked your eyes."

His hand fell from Harry's face as he stepped back.

"Gardener's Cottage," he said, and then disappeared in a surge of green flames.

The chairs in the pub were moving to the table tops, the lights dimming further, and the barmaid had disappeared into the back. There were other places Harry could go, other places he should go, but Snape was there, was willing. Who was he to turn that down? Harry took the Floo powder and followed Snape to his home.

**_2\. January 2002_ **

Harry woke to a rush of cold air. He reached out blindly but found the bed empty and the duvet gone. He lifted his head from the pillow and squinted into the room. Snape's blurry figure was walking away, white duvet wrapped around his shoulders.

"Bastard," Harry said. He murmured a quick warming charm and burrowed his head into the pillow. It smelt like Snape: something warm and full combined with his peppercorn soap. It was comforting, no matter how disturbing the thought of Snape being comforting was.

"My house, my duvet, my rules, Mr Potter." How Snape was still able to be so removed when talking to him, Harry had no idea. Their thing, whatever it was, had been going on for a month now. Surely most people would be on a first name basis by now. Still, he shouldn't have been surprised that he was the one who was more interested, more open. He knew firsthand just how much of a bastard Snape could be.

The shower turned on in the bathroom next door. The door must have been left ajar, as Harry could hear the tub creaking as Snape got in. Then, the sound of water dimmed when Snape moved under the spray. He could join, the door had been left open in Snape's wordless attempt of an invitation, but moving from bed this early seemed like far too much effort. Snape had the awful habit of waking up at ungodly hours no matter how late he'd stayed up the night before. Must have been something left over from being a teacher. Or a Death Eater. Maybe Voldemort liked to hold his meetings at the times which would annoy his followers the most.

Harry resolved himself to another heating charm and hoped Snape would come back to bed after he'd finished.

He must have drifted off, because the next he knew the mattress was dipping and a cold hand came to rest on his back.

"You're boiling," came Snape's voice, heavy with the weight of morning.

"'m not. I just have to compensate for you keeping this place freezing."

Snape begun rubbing circles on his back, the heel of his palm digging in just on the right side of painful. "It's an old house in the middle of winter. This is as warm as it's going to get."

Harry turned his head so he could look at Snape through a half closed eye. He'd towelled off, but his hair was still damp, pushed back behind his ears. The duvet was once again draped around him, but one pale shoulder and the start of his chest was visible.

"Come back to bed. We could find better uses for our mouths."

Snape smirked. It didn't look nearly as imposing now Harry was so used to seeing him like this: half naked and wanting.

"Or a better use for that duvet. Don't you own a dressing gown?"

"I've no need for one."

"I'll buy you one then. I never did get you anything for your birthday."

Snape froze, fingers caught in the arch of Harry's spine. Harry wished he could take back what he said. Every time he considered, or even voiced the possibility, of doing something nice for Snape, he withdrew into himself. It was an issue that came up surprisingly frequently.

"I didn't mean it like you're thinking," But Snape didn't respond. He stood up and went to the wardrobe to get dressed.

"I just want to do something nice for you." He pushed himself into a sitting position. It felt stupid to lie naked while Snape was busy working himself into one of his moods.

"I don't care for niceties." He'd pulled on a pair of dark trousers and reached for a shirt.

"Of course you don't. Look, this isn't about anything, and it's not weird either. Friends buy things for each other all the time. If you're really bothered you can pay me back."

Snape looked up, paused halfway through buttoning his shirt, the look on his face something fierce. "Do you really think we're friends?" His voice was low. It was as if Harry were back in Hogwarts, about to receive a detention for his insolence. But he was older, and knew enough to realise digging his heels in and glaring wasn't going to help. Besides, Snape didn't seem to be deriving pleasure from the experience. "Or," he continued, "that I wish to owe you anything?"

So this was the crux of the issue. Only since the war ended had Snape the chance to be his own person. This house was part of that: something new and unrelated to his past, something that was not defined by the choices he had made or the actions he was forced to take. He'd spent too many years moving underneath different masters, and even now he hadn't truly escaped the ministry's grasp. Harry's insistence seemed to be exacerbating it. Making Snape feel, no matter how silly it was to Harry, that he had no control. The last time Snape had been free in any sense of the word he had been a child sat next to Lily on the Hogwarts Express. One sentence as yet unspoken, as yet to define his destiny.

"You don't owe me anything." No, Snape had worked off any debt he owed to Lily as soon as Voldemort's curse rebounded and his lifeless body hit the ground. Or maybe he felt now that he was still working off that debt, and rescuing Harry from the Leaky Cauldron had been another favour. All those nights since would have been favours too. "You nearly gave your life for me. I'm not so stupid to think–"

A shiver ran through Snape, making his entire body shudder. "I didn't– It wasn't for–" But he stopped himself, though they both knew what he was going to say. He finished buttoning his shirt before striding back over to Harry. He reached out and Harry, not knowing what to expect, held out his arm. Snape took him by the wrist but didn't pull, his palm resting against the join of Harry's wrist and hand.

"Come on," he said. "I expect you'll want to bother me today."

"Is that what we're calling it now?" Snape's index finger pressed down on his pulse. "Fine. I wouldn't want to deny you my presence."

Snape finally heaved Harry up, but kept his hand in place. He leant in and kissed Harry, shallow, barely more than a brush of lips against lips, but it lingered, leaving Harry feeling as if for a moment all that existed was this.

"I'd be a fool," one of them said against the other's mouth, but who Harry couldn't tell.

Harry moved back. Snape's face was blank, his hand tight on his wrist.

"I need to shower," Harry said, uncertain of what else to say, suddenly aware he was naked while Snape was dressed.

"By all means. Don't let me stop you." Snape let go but didn't step away. Instead, he waited for Harry to move first before leaving.

*

By the time Harry had showered and gone downstairs, Snape was already sat at the small kitchen table reading the newspaper. A half drunk cup of black tea was sat in front of him. The paper wasn't the _Daily Prophet_ but one of the newer foundations set up in the midst of post-war dissatisfaction with the press. The wizarding world had desired a paper that was not so biased, nor one under the purview of ministry control. Snape showed no sign of noticing Harry, too engrossed to care.

Harry went to the kettle and tapped it to boil with his wand. He readied his mug with a teabag and set the toaster.

"What are the plans for today, then?" he asked as he sat down opposite Snape.

Snape didn't glance up. "The usual," he said when he realised Harry was expecting a response. "Shouldn't take more than a few hours."

Harry sighed. The thought of following Snape from potions shop to potions shop all afternoon wasn't his idea of fun. But they'd fallen by accident into the routine and Harry was unwilling to break it. It was the only time he could be in public with Snape, at least in their world. People were more than ready to assume Harry was showing kindness to an ex-Death Eater, to a man who almost died for him, someone hateful and spiteful and true. If it was all Harry could get, then he was going to take it.

"You needn't come if the idea offends you that much."

Snape was looking at him, dark eyes watching over the paper.

"No, no. I do want to come. It's nice seeing you so passionate about things." Even if it is endless jars of beetles' eyes and snake skin.

Snape hummed just as the kettle finished boiling. Harry, with a lazy flick of his wand, poured himself a cup of tea and summed it and the toast over to the table.

"Are you sure you even need a wand for that? You made it seem far too easy."

"I haven't tried. Don't fancy the kettle exploding if I do."

Snape shook his head and went back to reading, happy to ignore Harry as he ate. He folded the paper abruptly and stood up when Harry had reached for his last slice of toast. He left the room and a few moments later came back with Harry's shoes and jacket in hand. He placed them on the chair beside Harry. The act was torn halfway between being helpful and telling Harry to hurry up. Harry thanked him all the same.

Snape waited until Harry was ready so they could leave the house together. It was an old, crumbling cottage in the middle of the Welsh countryside with no-one around for miles. A path through the overgrown front garden led to a small, single lane road with ageing tarmac. It was obvious why Snape had chosen it. It was as far from Hogwarts as possible while remaining in the country per ministry orders, and deserted enough that no-one had the excuse of stumbling upon him by accident. Harry locked the gate behind them as Snape came to a stop just outside the wards.

"I'll see you there," he said. "The usual place." Then he Disapparated with a crack.

Harry waited a minute before Apparating two shop faces down. He looked around as if this part of their routine hadn't been planned to a T. He grinned in recognition when he found Snape exactly where he expected him to be and went over to join him.

"I was running late. I was worried I'd missed you."

"Lucky you weren't any later. I was just about to leave." Harry grinned wider, which only sought to deepen Snape's frown.

"Don't get any ideas," he said and started down the street to the first ingredient shop. Harry followed behind, knowing the afternoon would bore him to tears.

He was right. The first shop had Snape insist on inspecting a special order he had made. Every jar and every package had to be gone through, for what, Harry didn't know. He'd never been very good at potions, and after Hogwarts he'd let everything he did know fall to the wayside. When Snape was satisfied they took their leave, the order being sent on to Snape's house.

The next shop was no better. It was at the far end of Diagon Alley and was cold and gloomy even with the lights on. Harry hated this shop the most, but Snape seemed to find it the most useful. Either that or he liked it to spite Harry. It did have a stool though, which made the ordeal slightly more bearable.

Snape began to inspect the shelves, his back to Harry. His cloak dragged against the floor as he moved. Harry would be lying if he said Snape were attractive. His hair was as lank and greasy as it had ever been, his eyes tired, and his nose too large. But there was something in him that was alluring: his dangerously thin figure imposing underneath the layers of black, how every word he said was deliberated over, and that he, of all people, was the one meant to like Harry least. Why that specifically made Harry so intrigued by him he'd no idea. Maybe it was the taboo of Snape being his old teacher, an ex-Death Eater, and the one who inadvertently led to the deaths of Harry's parents. The fact he was a man fit into it somewhere.

It was all one sided. There was something treacherous in the longing on his face when Snape didn't think Harry could see. And then there were the things he said sometimes. And the way he acted all the time. Distant. Withdrawn. Harry was a poor stand-in for his mother. He had her eyes and her kindness, but there was too much of James in him for Snape to see him as separate.

Despite that and all the differences that lay between them, there were similarities. Their childhoods were empty, having suffered at the hands of those who should have loved them, and both were tools used in merciless games. They had survived the same war, both met with death only to have it turn away at the last instant. Snape had borne different scars. Had seen a darker side to what Harry had.

But his cloak was thinning where it dragged against the shop floor. All those years spent working in secret to end the war with good conquering all, and he was repaid by having his freedom halved. He had a wand, could perform magic and Apparate, but to call that freedom when every spell was monitored, when every potion had to comply with a stringent list of ministry values? When the ministry wasn't trying to reform him into a poster child, they itched to make him serve his sentence in Azkaban. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater, no matter how many people he saved, no matter that Harry would not have survived the war, let alone won it, without him.

"We could go to Madam Malkins later," Harry heard himself saying, the words falling out of his mouth and echoing. If it weren't for Snape stilling, stopped midway through turning a jar, he wouldn't have believed he said them. "Get you a new cloak."

"You will do no such thing."

"But I–"

"Don't push it, Harry."

 _Harry_. It resonated. How full it felt, rolling on Snape's tongue, falling from his mouth and making the air ring around them.

"I don't think you've ever said my name before," Harry all but whispered.

Snape turned to the shopkeeper behind the till. "I'll take these." He nodded to the ingredients he'd picked out. "Have them sent to my address. Mr Potter here," he shot a glance at Harry, "can pay for them." He stormed out of the shop.

Five minutes later Harry left, having paid for the ingredients and watched them be painstakingly packaged by shaking hands. Snape was stood under the shop canopy, hidden behind a potted plant, halfway through a cigarette.

"You could have at least waited for me," Harry grumbled, though he was pleased to see Snape hadn't gone far.

He blew out a line of smoke. "And give you the pleasure. I thought you wanted to do something nice for me. I'm only letting you have what you want."

"You can be a right git sometimes," Harry said, but he saw that Snape was more amused than angry. "We could get lunch, if you want."

"Your treat I suppose?"

"Shove off. I'll only buy you lunch if you let me get you a new cloak."

Snape took another drag of his cigarette and looked at the tail of his cloak. "I think we have some soup at home. Besides, I didn't think you'd want to be so overt. Aren't you and Miss Weasley still…" he trailed off at seeing the frown on Harry's face.

"Ginny and I aren't– Christ, Snape. Did you really think I'd cheat on her?"

"Keep your voice down," Snape hissed. Though there weren't that many people around, those who were there had turned to look.

"She's my friend. Doing me a favour. But we haven't been a thing since Hogwarts. You really thought that all this time I was just– that I'd be happy to be so public about cheating on her?"

"There isn't anything to be public about."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "No. I don't suppose there is. But you were happy to go about with me, thinking I was with someone else?"

Snape brought the cigarette up to his mouth but didn't go any further. He was looking across the street but his brow was knitted. "You made it clear that–"

"I didn't. I didn't say anything like what you think I said. Ginny and I are friends, Snape. Friends talk and smile and sit next to each other at the dinner table."

The people who'd stopped to stare had moved on long ago. Drizzle was now beginning to fall, hitting the canopy above them.

"I should go," he said. Snape's eyes snapped to him, lips pursing. "We should go."

"There's a pub. In a place just outside Cardiff."

"Drop it. Let's just go back to yours. I can call Kreacher and have him make us something if we need." Snape relaxed but Harry still wasn't happy. "We should talk later, when we've both calmed down."

Snape threw his wasted cigarette to the ground and stamped it out. Followed Harry out into the rain.

**_3: July 2003_ **

They caught the train down from London to a town just along the coast from Dover. The train – a normal, Muggle train – took far longer than magic would have. But doing things the Muggle way offered a certain amount of freedom otherwise impossible. The wizarding world was far too busy tracking magical means of transportation to pay much attention to Muggle methods. And the few who did would find their eyes sliding over the names Prince and Evans if they checked who'd bought tickets. It meant, as well, more freedom for Severus to live without fear of reprisal, and less chance of being stumbled upon by journalists. Besides, part of the wonder of going somewhere was the journey. It was time meant for nothing else but existing: a path predetermined, destination in sight, but no control over the act of getting there. It was Harry's favourite part of pretending to be Muggle. That, and that there was nothing else to do in that time but be in the same place as Severus.

The countryside and cityscape blurred intermittently in the windows. Severus' faint reflection caught in the glass, his fingers tapping impatiently on the table. He was clad in worn out Muggle clothes: jeans faded at the knees, an ill-fitting t-shirt loose around the collar, and a light windbreaker which he could zip up to his chin. He held no pretense of power, utterly uncaring about his appearance except to hide the scar on his neck. Marbled red and silver white, it was another reminder of the cross he had carried for two decades straight. Severus thought it ugly, but to Harry it was the mark of his survival. The point at which his life had started anew, become his own. Harry liked tracing it with his fingers, liked more the taste of it, the textural shift between rough and smooth skin.

"You're staring," Severus said over the murmur of the train.

"Am I? I hadn't noticed." Snape's hands stilled on the table. "I was just thinking," Harry continued.

Their eyes met in the reflection. "Try not to hurt yourself." Severus didn't press him to go on. He let out a long breath and stood up, back hunched to avoid the luggage rack above. "I'm going to the bathroom," he said, and disappeared down the aisle.

When he'd moved out of sight, the conversation Harry had had last night came back to him. He'd had dinner with Ron and Hermione, and had been sitting with them afterwards much like they used to in the common room at school.

Hermione had him cornered on the sofa. "I don't see why you wouldn't want to meet him, Harry."

There were only so many ways to say he wasn't interested, and he told Hermione as much.

"It's been a year and a half, mate," Ron called from the kitchen. "Just because you're a ponce doesn't mean you can't have fun."

"Ron! He doesn't mean that, Harry – did you, Ron? – he just meant that we want you to be happy."

"Look, I'm not exactly out to the world, am I? I hadn't planned on telling anyone." Hermione frowned. "And I don't particularly care about having fun."

The train rounded a corner, brief flash of green trees appeared before it was replaced by a sprawl of houses. He could see as clear as day the concern pressed on Hermione's face.

"You are happy, aren't you?" She shared a look with Ron as he entered the room. "You're not... you're not seeing anyone?"

Snape was heading back to their table now, gripping the backs of the seats he passed to steady himself.

"No," Harry had told her, knowing Severus was at the cottage, waiting for him to return. "I'm not seeing anyone."

When Snape got back, he took the seat next to Harry instead of sitting in his own.

"I hate travelling backwards. Makes me sick." Their knees knocked together, his thigh pressed fast to Harry's. Harry bit his cheek to keep from smiling as fingers ran up the back of his hand and entwined with his own beneath the table. They'd still 20 minutes before their stop. He brushed their shoulders together, content to spend their time like this.

*

They arrived with the blinding sun at their backs and walked down to the waterfront in silence. London had been miserably cold and rainy, but this small part of the country was warm and dry like summer should be.

Harry clambered down onto the beach and walked right to the water's edge. It was surprisingly empty considering it was the middle of the summer holidays, but it was early in the day and parents were still at work. It made sense that there were so few people here, especially with the rest of the country overtaken by storm.

Hermione's question played in Harry's mind, as did Severus' reluctance to speak. If something happened to Harry, if, god forbid, he pressed forward into the sea and let it consume him, would Severus care? He imagined it now, as the sea lapped at his trainers and soaked through the fabric and a light breeze brushed through his hair. He would walk into the channel and have his body turn to foam, with Severus, somewhere on the beach behind him, none the wiser to his reason why. And then, when he did reach the shoreline, he'd be left staring as Harry dissolved into the sea, the words "foolish boy" staining the smile on his lips.

Even as he imagined it, it seemed rather absurd. He'd witnessed Snape mourn before, even if it were only a scene from a memory. But then, the circumstances here were stranger to him. Severus had become ingrained in his life, in a way he hadn't expected. Most days and nights they spent together and he all but lived in the cottage. If Harry gave up Grimmauld Place, as he'd been thinking for a few years, then surely they would live together. But no-one knew. Not Ron nor Hermione. No-one. Almost everyone in the wizarding world knew that Wednesday afternoons was the time Harry allotted to Severus. They all supposed – well, they all seemed to supposed – that Harry felt sorry for him and didn't know how else to say thank you. Severus had saved his life after all, had loved Lily so purely and for so many years, that Voldemort had fallen because of it.

If something happened to Severus as they were now, Harry would take it to the grave. He'd drown in the secret of it, like he would the sea before him, rather than speak. All for that seed of doubt which had wedged in his mind and grown despite the years. Harry knew he wasn't the first person in this relationship. Little more than a convenience to each other. Severus had looked into his eyes and seen Lily where previously he had seen nothing but James. But even if he felt nothing, he had stayed. If he'd done so for the small parts of Lily he found in Harry, then Harry could bear it. He could love enough for the both of them. In the end, knowing what Harry knew, Severus had suffered far worse fates than being loved while not loving in return.

In the corner of his eye Severus appeared next to him, looking out over the channel and the faint hint of France on the horizon.

"I wish we could stay here forever," Harry said. Seaspray speckled his jeans.

"Right here? The tide would wash us out to sea."

"Maybe it should." The wind stilled, the waves fell back. Down the beach, a child shrieked out a laugh.

"Come along, Harry." Severus stepped back, fingers momentarily coming round to scrape the inside of Harry's wrist. Harry caught them in his own. Severus raised his eyebrow and for a second Harry thought he'd be shaken off, but he found himself being dragged up the beach and onto the pavement.

Harry bought them both ice cream while Severus loomed outside, too tall to stand comfortably in the cramped room. After, they left the waterfront by a pleasant alleyway, the sea chill disappearing as they headed further into the heart of the town. Side streets spun off either way, and the noise of people and cars filtered through from the main road. A right turn found them on a cobbled, residential lane, not big enough for cars and away from the prying eyes of tourists. It was lined with a row of trees and whitewashed walls which separated gardens from the lane.

"Quite out of place compared to the rest of it," said Severus. He'd finished his ice cream and was holding the end of the cone in a scrunched up napkin.

"I like it."

"Well you would, wouldn't you."

A line of ice cream melted down Harry's wrist. He licked it off in a stripe and shoved what remained of his cone into his mouth.

"How graceful," Severus said. Harry grinned in response. "Here, you've got–" He wiped at Harry's chin with his thumb, then, without so much as pausing to glance around, leant down and met him with a kiss. Harry's mind blurred: the weight of the sun which burnt through his shirt, the press of Severus' lips against his, the sound of Muggles going about their lives a street over.

Then voices clear as day, familiar to Harry though he hadn't heard them for years.

He broke away from the kiss. There, on the main road, were the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon was nowhere to be found, but Dudley, who was far skinnier than he had been before, and Aunt Petunia were talking to one another. It had been six years since Harry had seen them last, and now, here of all places, seemed like six years was far too soon. He could go his whole life without ever seeing them again and even that wouldn't seem like enough. He had time enough to leave, to Apparate away, but then Dudley happened to look their way.

"Harry?" said Severus' voice, but the words fell from Dudley's mouth.

Aunt Petunia snapped round, her mouth parted as though still in conversation. Dudley marched over, hand extended, saying something like "–haven't seen you since–" while Aunt Petunia stood-stock still, only moving when she realised who was standing next to Harry. Harry grasped loosely at Dudley's hand but his fingers didn't want to function.

His chest felt tight, a lump had formed in his throat. Dudley was talking and Harry knew he was responding, answering whatever questions he was being asked, but the words slipped out of his mind as soon he had heard them. They lay in a pool on the ground, his own voice, barely rippling the surface, so alien to him that he didn't understand. It was as though his mind were in a glass box, his body acting automatically, and he were trapped watching through a fog.

At some point, though he didn't know when, Aunt Petunia had come to be standing next to Dudley, looking back and forth through narrowed eyes between Severus and himself. Her mouth was moving too, saying something but it echoed without meaning around his head.

Severus voice vibrated through his body, he tried to focus on it, wanted to reach out and squeeze his fingers but found he couldn't move. "Tuney … a long time since..."

Whatever Aunt Petunia said in response, it wasn't enough to puncture through the fog, but Dudley frowned and turned to her.

"Mum, don't be so–"

His breath was coming in shallow gasps. His heart pounding against his ribcage.

"We must do this again sometime. Oh, how I'd like to catch up, Tuney."

Aunt Petunia's mouth pressed together, a furious glare in her eyes. She stalked off in the direction she'd come from, leaving Dudley standing awkwardly by himself.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he said. "They were awful to you. I didn't realise at the time but…" A curious expression crossed his face. "I'm sorry."

Harry could only tilt his head, could barely force out a thank you before Dudley was gone, and he was left alone with Severus at his side. It seemed so cold despite the sun bearing down. Warm hands burnt hot on his face, as the world shifted and Severus came into view.

"Breathe. Breathe through it. Come on."

Harry stumbled backwards, the cobbled street coming up to meet him, but Severus was quick, guiding him to sit on the curb. He took one of Harry's hands and placed it on his own chest, held it firm beneath his palm. Severus' heartbeat was even, a constant proof that one of them was still alive. It worked its way through Harry's fingers, ached through the cold skin, the tendons, and up into his veins, winding into his own pulse. He counted the rise and fall of Severus' chest, his breathing slowing gradually until they were synchronised. He balled his hand into a fist, bunching the fabric of Severus' shirt, a glint of pale collarbone and marbled scar visible.

"What happened? Was it–" but he caught himself as the fog dissipated from his mind. It couldn't have been a spell, there were no other wizards nearby but them. But what else could it be?

"A panic attack. Your aunt is as belligerent as ever, the shock of seeing her must have set you off."

A panic attack? "I don't understand. I've never had one before."

Severus sat beside him. His legs stretched out in front of him, arms holding himself up. "Trauma affects us in different ways. You've had a more difficult time than most and I imagine… It must be difficult after so many years of calm to be thrown back into the place you began. To have to face the people who abused you."

"I wasn't abused." Even as he said it, it felt wrong on his tongue. He was never beaten, never without food for too many days, and, for all their faults, the Dursleys had left him to his own devices when he was old enough. A wave of nausea hit him. The sun prickled at his neck.

"It's hard to realise you've been abused when it's all you've known. You were a child, how were you to know what was happening wasn't normal?"

Harry got the impression Severus wasn't talking just about him.

Severus' eyes were closed. His face turned up to the sky, dappled by sunlight streaming through the trees. He looked at peace, despite the depth of what he was saying. Harry thought again of Hermione, of the expression on her face when she pressed him to speak.

"I think we should tell people. About us."

"We've talked about this."

The wind began to pick up again, the trees swaying above them. Severus' hair flew into his face but he didn't seem to mind.

"We've talked theoretically. I don't want to hide whatever this is, or feel ashamed, or anything like that."

"And who have I to tell?" 

"There's McGonagall." Severus puffed a strand of hair away from his mouth. "The other professors. The old order members…. The Malfoys, surely." In truth, Harry dreaded the idea of them knowing anything about him, but if it put Severus on the same footing as him, made him feel more comfortable.

"None of whom have forgiven me for my various crimes." His eyes flickered open. "There are very few people in my life I've considered friends. Far fewer now. The Malfoys at one point, certainly I was useful to them and desperate for the attention. Minerva is more forgiving, I'll grant you, but... what I did..." His breath came in a shudder. A sob trapped inside his ribcage. He curled in on himself, legs and spine contracting, moving so quickly it looked impossible. "And how could she forgive me? Even if she were able–"

Harry leant his head on Severus' shoulder, wrapped an arm around his back.

It was the wrong time to ask, he'd never seen Severus cry before, but the question he'd held back all these months came bubbling up: "Why did you take me home with you? That first December, I mean."

"You were there," Severus groaned. "You were miserable and petulant." Wind howled through the lane, shook leaves loose from their branches. Slowly, his breathing evened out. "You were alive, proof that I am not such a… that I am not the failure–the coward–I could have been."

"Did you love my mother?" Harry knew the answer, but he dreaded having it confirmed. Strangely, it seemed to be the thing that calmed Severus.

"You're an idiot. Much more of a fool than I thought you were." Severus' head nudged back against his. "I loved her" – Harry's heart fell into his stomach – "but not in the way you're thinking." He sat up, met Severus' gaze, heat filling his cheeks. "She was the first friend I had, the only person who saw any good in me. How could I not love her? But you," his gaze was intense, his voice soft, "you see worth in me despite everything I've done. You've good reason to hate me–"

"–I don't hate you."

"Don't. I won't have you throwing your life away out of a reaction to what happened today. Do what you must on your own terms, not to be a slave to the demands of others."

"I'm not reacting to anything, at least not to seeing the Dursleys. They don't exactly fill me with the desire to be myself around them. I want to tell my friends about you, about us, because I don't want to hide how I feel any longer."

"And what do you think their reaction will be when you tell them how enraptured you are with your old potions teacher? Will Mrs Weasley be overcome with affection for me? Or perhaps young Mr Weasley will understand why you turned your back on his sister." A flush had worked its way onto Severus' cheekbones.

"They'd understand that I love you. And that, if you're what makes me happy, then I'm sure...." Harry trailed off at the look on Severus' face. His features had contorted, something dark had seated itself in his eyes.

"And they will understand," he said, hands trembling as he did so. "That I am undeserving of you. That you have wasted yourself, thrown your life away, for the likes of me"

"I haven't thrown myself away. That's not what any of this is."

"You're too young to understand. I'm worthless, tainted by my past."

Harry bit his tongue, held back the retort he desperately wanted to say. He didn't want a split second decision and a lifetime of regret to take Severus away. Drizzle had begun to fall. It was barely noticeable, the tree line shielded them from the worst of it, but a drop landed on his eyelashes and he blinked it away.

By the time Harry spoke again the cobbles had become slick with rain. "We're more similar than you think," he said. "Neither one of us got the loving parents we should have had. I don't think either one of us would describe our time at school as good, although I think yours was worse than mine."

"You had a madman after you."

Harry smiled despite himself. "And you had my dad and Sirius. We were both forced into war – and don't give me that look. Don't pretend like you had any other options. I'm not excusing you either, but I think I did the same. Or, I would have done, it's just the crowd I fell into happened to good. Had Voldemort found me first and given me a choice then I can't say where I'd be. The only difference I can see is that everything ended by the time I was 18. I was given the rest of my life in exchange for my childhood, while you were handed from master to master." Severus was pulling at his hands, picking at the skin on his knuckles. "So we're both broken, both abused, both defined by what happened to us when we were children. So, I don't accept that I'm better than you. I don't accept that you're undeserving of me. Because as I see it, we're the only two people in the world who have a chance at understanding the other."

It took a long time for Severus to respond. He was thinking hard though, his fingers winding together and scratching still, a bead of watery blood forming where he'd torn at a hangnail. His eyes were fixed on the ground but he didn't seem to be aware that he was looking at anything at all.

"I'm not as in tune with my emotions as you are. I know I haven't hated you for years, I think I've made that much clear. I know also that I am fond of you." His words were considered, voice slow. "But, I won't take back what I said, Harry. You deserve someone who is not so difficult to love. I fail to see how that person can be me, no matter how similar you think we are." The sun dipped behind a cloud, the world turning to grey, but the drizzle thinned out. "If this is what you want, I won't stop you. If you wish to tell your friends then go ahead." Their eyes met as though it was the first time they were really seeing each other. Harry was reminded of that first night in the Leaky. He remembered the brush of Snape's hand through his hair, the alcohol on his breath, the intensity of his gaze. "I think, with time, I will come to love you."

**Author's Note:**

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